


Sherlock Can't Stop (Thinking About A Dead Sexy DI)

by Lizlemler



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confused Sherlock, Greg is gutted, I mean he's close to passing out, M/M, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizlemler/pseuds/Lizlemler
Summary: Sherlock has come to realize that he is suddenly quite obsessed with Greg Lestrade. He finds himself thinking about the DI at random intervals when he should be focusing on a case or an experiment.  It throws him for a loop and it takes months before he feels as if he's got a handle on it.  He's always been aware of how attractive the older man is.  It had simply never made any difference to him until recently.  Now he struggled to maintain an air of normalcy whenever they were at a crime scene or on a case.  He's fairly sure no one has noticed anything unusual yet.  The situation is becoming untenable and Sherlock has decided just to go see the man to try to determine what has brought this change about in an attempt to eradicate it.  Unfortunately his timing is not great.





	1. Flustered and Confused

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Herk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herk/gifts).



> Alright. I love Sherstrade and apparently February, the SHORTEST MONTH OF THE ENTIRE YEAR is Sherstrade Month. But I ain't mad. Naaaah. That's okay. That's alright. Because we can't be kept down. We'll take that short month and write so much Sherstrade it'll run over in to March. And April and May, June, July...you get it. Keep an eye on the tags. Gen. Audiences now but later bits will be rated differently. Honestly don't know yet where this will take me, who else might make an appearance or if I'm just going to keep it super simple. Watch this space.
> 
> A small token for Herk for being so darn cool.

Greg wearily climbed the steps to the front entrance of his townhouse.  It was just gone three in the morning and he could barely see straight.  Shifting a small collection of cold case files to his left hand, he retrieved his keys, closing and opening his eyes a few times in an attempt to focus on the lock.  He heard a soft sound behind him and detected Sherlock’s scent just before a gloved hand came in to his field of vision, silently taking the keyring and slotting the key in to the lock.  Pushing the door open wide, Sherlock hovered next to Lestrade.  He wanted to put his arm around the older man and help him inside but he didn’t know how the DI would react. 

Greg absentmindedly stepped forward to disarm the security system before turning to look at the Consulting Detective.  “It’s the middle of the night Sherlock and I haven’t slept in over forty hours.  I don’t have the energy to do anything more than collapse on my bed, if I can even make it that far.  What are you doing here?”

Sherlock couldn’t meet the copper’s annoyed gaze.  “Y-you promised me cold cases,” he murmured, fascinated and dismayed at the emotions coursing through him.  He also mutely registered labored breathing, and a significantly elevated heartrate.   

“Of course.”  He heard the resignation in Lestrade’s voice, mixed with more than a little bitterness and something else, almost wistful.  He risked glancing up, only to look away quickly.  Facing Lestrade’s increasing frustration with him had become surprisingly difficult over the last few months.  “Of course you had to come bother me here, now, instead of just waiting a few hours.  Because Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn’t wait for anyone or anything ever.”

Staring at the space just to the side of Lestrade’s right ear, Sherlock mumbled, “I went to your office.  You’d already gone.”

Greg slumped back against the wall.  His voice was softer when he asked, “You know I don’t live there, right.”  After a tiny pause, he added sardonically, “At least not usually.” Having revived slightly, Greg focused on the posh bloke standing on his porch. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock froze.  “Pardon?”

“What’s wrong? You’re acting…weird.”  His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Sherlock.

The younger man panicked. “I’m just bored Lestrade. Like always.”

There was another pause before Lestrade said softly, “Are you alright Sherlock?”  Sherlock didn’t understand the question and said nothing, He looked, a slight scowl on his face, directly at Lestrade, who seemed to have discovered new reserves of energy.  Lestrade’s voice was stronger and more pointed when he asked, “I mean, is everything _okay_?”

Sherlock registered Lestrade’s genuine concern and then immediately discerned what he was really asking.  He swallowed, pushing the hurt aside.  His jaw tight, he said, “You can relax Lestrade. I am not having a _danger night_.”  The last two words were tinged with scorn and self-recrimination. He turned away. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”  Sherlock retreated down the short staircase before Greg could respond.

“Sherlock, wait.”  Sherlock stopped but didn’t turn around. “C’mon mate.  I’m gutted.  I can’t do this now, so can you please just wait till morning to be pissed at me?”

Sherlock stared straight ahead.  “I’m not…pissed at you.”  His distaste of the vernacular was evident. 

Greg wanted to care, he truly did, but he was at risk of passing out.  “I’m glad to hear it.” He took a big breath and sighed.  “Sherlock I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.  Listen, you’re welcome to come in and read the files if you’re desperate, but I have to go lay down.”  With that, he turned and disappeared inside.

After several long moments, Sherlock turned around to see that the door was still open.  He stood there and stared at it for a full minute.  He wanted to follow the DI but struggled, internally conflicted.  He told himself to just make sure the door was closed and go.  Climbing the stairs again he reached for the doorknob when the door fell away. He looked up to see Greg standing there, relief clear to see.  “Good, you’re still here.  I thought you’d gone. Come in.”  He stepped aside and held the door open for the lanky genius. 

Confused and flustered but trying not to show it, Sherlock stepped through the door and moved further into the room beyond.  Behind him he heard the door being closed and locked. A moment later, Lestrade brushed passed him pulling his suitcoat off as he went.  He threw the jacket on the back of an armchair and began removing his tie.  That hit the low table as the shoes were carelessly removed.  The tired man clumsily maneuvered around that table, yanking his shirt free before collapsing gratefully on to the overstuffed sofa, face first. 

Sherlock stared at the recumbent form of Greg Lestrade wondering what he should do.

 

 


	2. Consternation and Resentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to determine why his feelings for Lestrade have undergone such a dramatic shift but gets sidetracked by them instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it gets a bit shouty in this installment, but there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Sherlock stared at the recumbent form of Greg Lestrade, wondering what he should do.  He turned and slid his Belstaff off, placing it gently on the other armchair.  He sat carefully on the chair Greg had thrown his jacket on.  He pulled the top file from the little pile on the coffee table and began to scan the contents, but found he could not focus.  His gaze drifted up to Greg again, striving to determine why his feelings had shifted so dramatically in recent months.  Gaining no further insight, he huffs his exasperation after several minutes of concentrated contemplation. 

This had the unexpected consequence of disturbing the sleeping policeman, who wriggled sinuously onto his side, facing the room.  Seeing this had a distinct and slightly alarming physiological effect on the consulting detective, who froze in fear of the older man waking up and reading him like a book.  After sitting motionless for a few minutes, barely breathing, Sherlock finally felt it was safe to continue re-examining recent events, hoping to discover something he’d previously overlooked or disregarded in the moment.  He silently placed the cold case file back on the table in front of him.   He initiated an objective, systematic review of all the times he had been with Lestrade going back to when he had first recognized that something had changed.  This examination took over an hour but at the end, Sherlock had still not identified any event of note that would have resulted in his suddenly being illogically attracted to the older man.

Sherlock relaxed back, placing his hands together under his chin, entering his mind palace.  He wandered a bit but soon found himself inside the space reserved for the DI.  It had expanded since his last visit and now was populated with the same arrangement of furniture found in Lestrade’s first floor sitting room.  He looked at the sofa where Mind Palace Greg slept.  Mind Palace Sherlock quietly went to stand by the sofa and sank down on the low table.  He reached up and pushed his fingers through that thick mane of shiny silver hair, rolling a lock between his thumb and forefinger, captivated by its softness.  His fingertips brushed along the outer part of Greg’s ear and then down his strong jawline.  Mind Palace Greg had two day old stubble and Sherlock longed to feel it under his lips.

Still safely ensconced in his Mind Palace, Sherlock indulged his newfound desires for physical contact of a particular nature and with a particular dead sexy DI, brushing a thumb lightly over Mind Palace Greg’s plump lower lip.  Those succulent lips parted and Sherlock was shocked by a very strong urge to gently push the tip of his thumb past them.  Closing his eyes, he swallowed and resisted the impulse, feeling that that would be going too far, even if only in his imagination. 

He gathered himself, intending to retreat to the other side of the low table, but was forestalled when he felt a kiss pressed on the soft pad of his thumb.  His eyes flew open as Mind Palace Greg slid one hand behind his, bringing the palm to his lips to kiss it before sliding his lips up to press a third kiss directly on the pulse point in his wrist.  “Greg,” he gasped.  When the soft pressure of Greg’s lips shifted as he began sucking lightly on the delicate skin there, Sherlock could not prevent the soft moan that began in the back of his throat. 

“Sherlock.”  Greg’s voice was strangely flat, as if he was displeased. 

Sherlock tore his gaze from those lips to meet the DI’s irritated glare. “Greg?”

_“Sherlock!”_

Pulled from his Mind Palace, Sherlock’s eyes focused immediately on real life Lestrade who was awake and staring daggers at him.  “For fuck’s sake Sherlock!”

Fuck.

Sherlock couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.  He was rendered helpless by the mounting consternation and resentment in the other man.  Greg dragged himself to a seated position, his antagonism palpable.  “Why did you come here?”  He was almost yelling now.  Still frozen, the consulting detective couldn’t breathe.  “Answer me!”  The command felt like a physical blow.

Unable to endure the anger in Greg’s eyes, Sherlock dropped his, discovering that he had an obvious erection that the Yarder had certainly seen.  No wonder he was so incensed.  Mortified, Sherlock tried to stammer out an apology.  “I-I’m sorry.  I…I didn’t…”

This meager attempt to apologize only fanned Greg’s ire.  “You’re sorry?!  For what?  Ignoring me for months?  Unless I can feed your addiction with a juicy murder of course.  Or coming here out of the blue in the middle of the night to torment me some more?”  Everything about him screamed his acrimony.

“N-no, Greg, it’s not like that!”  Sherlock had never seen this Lestrade, filled with rage towards him, not even when he’d turned back to the drugs time and time again, or compromised an investigation with his selfish recklessness.  Even murderers he’d put behind bars had been treated with more compassion.

“Then what?!  Tell me now Sherlock because I’m tired and I don’t understand and I can’t do this anymore.”

Sherlock felt like he was turning to ice.  Greg had always been there for him, always.  Even after he'd returned from the dead, Greg had embraced him and forgiven him instantly. 


	3. Greg Let's Him have It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is dying on the inside and Greg has nothing left to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there. It will get better. Just not quite yet.

Sherlock felt like he was turning to ice.  Greg had always been there for him, always.  Even after he’d returned from the dead, Greg had embraced him and forgiven him instantly.  The thought of losing him now as an ally and a friend was unbearable.  But how could he confess his feelings when Greg was clearly appalled and infuriated by the evidence of it?

He couldn’t.  “I shouldn’t have come,” he whispered.  He managed to stand and force himself to walk in the direction of the door.

Greg’s harsh voice taunted him.  “So that’s it?  You’re just going to leave.  _Again._ ”

He heard movement behind him and Greg was suddenly next to him, shoving his poncy coat at him.  “Go on then, go.  Get out!  I can’t stand the sight of you.”

Greg moved away, disappearing in to the kitchen.  Feeling completely dejected and empty, Sherlock stumbled toward the door, his eyes stinging.  He’d finally pushed Lestrade too far, crossed a line there was no coming back from.   There would be no more chances to get it right.  Greg was revolted by him.  His last words echoed in Sherlock’s head, drowning everything else out.   Almost.

As his hand grasped the doorknob, something else Greg had said made him stop.  Again.  He’d said, ‘You’re just going to leave. _Again_.’  Somehow Sherlock knew he’d missed something very important.  As difficult as it would be to face the DI again, knowing he sickened him, Sherlock _had_ to know what he’d meant.  Steeling himself for further recrimination and censure, he turned back.

Greg shuffled wearily into the room holding a tumbler of a dark liquid in one hand, a bottle of liquor in the other.  He did not even acknowledge the other man, just slumped into the nearest armchair, downing the liquid before pouring another.

Without moving any closer, Sherlock asked, “What did you mean by again?”

“Go away Sherlock,” Greg muttered, his voice devoid of emotion.

“I will.  Just, please, tell me.”  Sherlock heard the desperation in his own voice.  Struggling to control his turbulent emotions, he tried again. “You said ‘you’re just going to leave _again’_. Why?”

“You know why.  Please, stop this.  I’m done Sherlock.  It’s too much.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.  What had he done to this man who had always looked out for him, always had his back?  He wanted to remember but couldn’t.  He needed to know before he could walk away from the one person who had never let him down, had sacrificed so much for him and never asked for or expected anything in return.  “Greg, please.” 

“Why…why are you doing this?”  Lestrade’s voice was tinged with anguish.

Sherlock took tentative steps back, closing the distance.  He felt like he was coming apart but he owed the other man more than this pain.  Stopping just where he was still out of Lestrade’s view, he confessed, “Because I don’t know why you said that.  Did I…?  Did I leave before?”

“Please, Sherlock.  Please just leave me be.  I’m begging you.”  His voice broke on a sob.

Sherlock closed the distance, falling on his knees beside the chair.  “I did, didn’t I? Something…happened between us.  And I left you alone.”

Greg’s face twisted with pain. “Is this some kind of game for you?  Do you enjoy toying with me like this?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No. I swear, this is not a game.  I just don’t remember.  Whatever happened, I must have deleted it, probably because I’m an emotionally stunted ignoramus.”  Bringing every scrap of deductive ability to the fore, he continued. “It was a little over three months ago.”

Greg scowled at him, disbelief and derision implicit.  “If you deleted it, how do you know when it happened?”

So something _had_ happened, that much was clear.  He just prayed it wasn't too bad.

It’s now or never, Sherlock knew that.  If he didn’t do this now, he would never get another chance.  “Because that’s when everything changed.”  Sherlock dropped his intense gaze away from Greg’s disbelieving glare.  He swallowed, preparing to lay himself bare, whatever the consequences.  He would not let Lestrade down now by withholding the truth any longer.  “I wasn’t ignoring you Greg…but…I have been avoiding you.  Because I didn’t understand what was happening.  I’ve been so unfocused, for months, unable to concentrate on anything.  Except you” Sherlock risked looking up at him again. 

Greg was far from convinced but he _was_ listening.   Sherlock took a breath, removing his defenses for this remarkable, selfless man.  Flashing a rare, self-deprecating grin, he continued, “I think about you all the time, wondering where you are, what you’re doing, how you’re day is going.”  Boldly, he reached up to remove the bottle and now empty glass, placing them on the floor, then taking Greg’s hands in his own.  “I think about your hands and your voice.  They’re really…nice.  Strong but gentle.  I think about your eyes, so warm and caring.  I think about everything you’ve ever done for me and I can’t believe it.”

His brows drew together.  He had to know what happened, even if it was really bad.  “Greg, did I...hurt you?  Did I…do something…not good?”  His voice was a mere whisper. 

The silence stretched out and Sherlock knew what the answer would be.  “Yes.”  The word was pushed out, pain and resignation unmistakable.  Sherlock trembled, self-revulsion twisting his insides.  He was a monster.  Lestrade hated him.  He deserved it. 

He released Greg’s hands, shrinking in on himself.  He couldn’t face him.  “Tell me.  You shouldn’t have to bear it alone.”  He waited for the words that would convict him as the worst sort of man, one who takes and takes selfishly, never considering how it would affect anyone else.

 


	4. Everything's on the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Sherlock convince Greg that he doesn't remember what happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a bit darker and more intense than originally envisioned. But there will be happier times. This chapter is a bit shorter but it was ready I think. Let me know what you think.

His brows drew together.  He had to know what happened, even if it was really bad.  “Greg, did I….hurt you? Did I…do something…not good?”  His voice was a mere whisper. 

The silence stretched out and Sherlock knew what the answer would be.  “Yes.”  The word was pushed out, pain and sorrow unmistakable.  Sherlock trembled, self-revulsion twisting his insides.  He was a monster.  Lestrade hated him.  He deserved it. 

He released Greg’s hands, shrinking in on himself.  He couldn’t face him.  “Tell me.  You shouldn’t have to bear it alone.”  He waited for the words that would convict him as the worst sort of man, one who takes and takes selfishly, never considering how it would affect anyone else.

Greg studied the younger man.  He was motionless except for the shaking.  From everything he could see, Sherlock was telling the truth.  While he was rude, manipulative, demanding, quixotic and a lot of other things, Sherlock wasn’t a liar.  Greg was torn.  He didn’t want to see Sherlock suffering like this, but the last few months had been torture, believing that someone he’d helped and cared for so many times and in so many ways could treat him so cavalierly.  Even if it was true and Sherlock had deliberately deleted it, something he still didn’t really get, that was pretty bad.  He couldn’t just overlook that and go on as if it was business as usual.  On the other hand, thinking that Sherlock cared so little for his feelings had resulted in a sharp bitterness settling in gut that he hadn’t been able to shake.  It had affected everything.  He’d grown resentful and harsh and it was killing him.  At least he might be able to get back to his old self more easily if Sherlock was being honest.  Greg needed to know.

“Sherlock look at me.” Greg waited while Sherlock slowly forced his eyes up to meet the DI’s.  Leaning forward he captured his chin securely.  “Swear to me that you don’t remember.   _Everything is on the line_. If you lie to me now I _will_ find out eventually and I’ll wash my hands of you for good.  I mean it Sherlock.  So swear to me that you have no idea what happened between us three months ago.  Make me believe.”

Sherlock’s gaze never wavered and his voice was low but firm.  “I swear on my life…on my intellect…I can’t remember.  I have tried and I just can’t find it.  I swear I would _never_ try to deceive you about this.  I know I give you a hard time sometimes, but the truth is you’re an incredibly skilled interrogator.  Certainly the best New Scotland Yard has ever seen.  Your instincts are always correct.  You would _know_ if I wasn’t telling you the absolute truth.”

The consulting prat was right.  He _would_ know.  He did know.  Sherlock was telling the truth.  He could feel it.  He’d stake his reputation on it.  This thought gave him an idea.  He was as sure as he possibly could be at that precise moment, but it couldn’t hurt to give the younger man one final chance to come clean.  And it made sense to add a little incentive.  Lestrade, in complete command of himself and the situation, held the other man’s gaze for a long time, giving nothing away.  Finally, he spoke again.  “Final chance Sherlock.  Now or never.  If this turns out to be some cruel experiment, I _will_ cut you out of my life for good.  I’ll resign my command, leave the Yard and leave London.  You’ll never see me again.”

Sherlock sat up straight as a poker.  His eyes were huge as he struggled to drag in a labored breath.  The scant bit of color visible drained from his face. Frankly, Greg was startled by Sherlock’s reaction, but he held fast.  When Sherlock could speak again, he breathed, “You can’t mean that.”

Greg had a lot of faith in his instincts, so he doubled down.  “Sherlock, if I can’t tell that you’re lying about something this important, then I don’t belong in the Yard.”

“I’m not lying.”  This was simple and direct

He wasn’t.  Greg let himself relax slowly for the first time in days, maybe weeks even.  “Alright.  On your head be it.  I believe you.”


	5. Greg is Really Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants data. Greg just needs some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. The ending of this chapter was elusive. This story is more angsty than planned and there is a bit more to come but there is light at the end of this tunnel.

“Final chance Sherlock.  Now or never.  If this turns out to be some cruel experiment, I _will_ cut you out of my life for good.  I’ll resign my command, leave the Yard and leave London.  You’ll never see me again.”

Sherlock sat up straight as a poker.  His eyes were huge as he struggled to drag in a labored breath.  The scant bit of color visible drained from his face.  Frankly, Greg was startled by Sherlock’s reaction, but he held fast.  When Sherlock could speak again, he breathed, “You can’t mean that.”

Greg had a lot of faith in his instincts, so he doubled down.  “Sherlock, if I can’t tell that you’re lying about something this important, then I don’t belong in the Yard.”

“I’m not lying.”  This was simple and direct

He wasn’t.   Greg let himself relax slowly for the first time in days, maybe weeks even.  “Alright.  On your head be it.  I believe you.”

Sherlock continued to regard Lestrade with trepidation.  Greg could not recall another time when the consulting detective had ever behaved like this, as if he was literally afraid of what the policeman would say or do next.  Not even when he returned from the dead, waylaying him in the carpark of New Scotland Yard.  Greg watched Sherlock carefully.  His voice and body language confirmed what the lanky bastard claimed.  If Sherlock had deleted the memory of what happened, that would at least explain why he had behaved as if nothing had happened for the last three months. 

The two men stared at each other guardedly for a while.  Finally, beyond exhausted, Lestrade sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face.  “Okay Sherlock, as fascinating as all this has been, I’m gutted and my brain is starting to shut down, so I’m going upstairs to collapse on my bed and pass out for about twelve hours.”

He leaned forward to prepare to stand when Sherlock responded.  “Wait.  You…you haven’t told me what happened yet.”

Greg’s brows drew together.  “That’s right genius and guess what.  I’m not going to either.”  He stood as the thin man stared at him in horror.

“What?!  No!  You have to!”

Maneuvering around him, Greg muttered flatly, “I really don’t.”

Sherlock, still on his knees, stared at the retreating DI, his eyes wide.  No, he had to know.  He _needed_ to know the truth.  Getting to his feet, he trailed after the older man.  “Greg, please, I have to know.”

“Not tonight Sherlock,” Greg grumbled as he began to climb the stairs.

“Tomorrow then?” he persisted.

Lestrade experienced an intense stab of resentment.  He turned and scowled down at the consulting twat.  “No dammit, not tomorrow either,” he spat scornfully.  He was trying hard to keep his temper in check but it was a very near thing.

“But-“

“Shut it Sherlock!  You’re unbelievable, you know that?  You’ve barely spoken to me in months and even then it was only to insult or dismiss me.  You’ve been acting as if just being in my presence is hateful and now that you want something from me, you expect me to roll over like some kind of dog and do what you want, when you want without taking even a moment to think about what I might want or need.  I’m getting fed up with your colossal selfishness.  You are a grown man, so try acting like it instead of a spoiled six year old in a strop.  Now I am going to get some sleep and you are going to leave me alone for the next twelve hours.  Do you understand?”

Sherlock gawked up at him, flabbergasted by this condemnation from the normally very patient, kind and compassionate DI.  Chastened, he realized Lestrade was actually waiting for a response.

“Y-yes, of course.” He stammered.   Lestrade nodded and turned, climbing two more stairs.  Just after he turned at the landing, Sherlock called up, “Greg?”

The copper paused but he kept his focus on the stairs in front of him.  “Twelve. Hours. Sherlock.  Not one second sooner.”

“I just…I’m sorry.  You’re right.  My behavior has been unforgiveable and I’m sorry, truly sorry for the way I’ve treated you.  I have no excuse.  There _is_ no excuse.   I only hope you will give me the chance to make it up to you…and…” Sherlock bit his lip to stop it from trembling.  When he could continue, his voice was shaky.  “And maybe to show you I can do better.  I _will_ do better.  But I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to sod off and leave you alone for good.”

Greg blinked back the tears that stung his eyes.  Never in a million years would he have expected such a heartfelt apology from the other man.  It was clear from his voice that his emotions were engaged and Greg believed the apology to be sincere.  Clearing his throat, not able to look at his friend he said, “Yeah, okay.  Ta for that.  Look, let’s just sleep on it and see where we are tomorrow.”  Before completing his climb to the second floor, he added, “You should get some sleep too.  Do not just obsess about this for the next twelve hours.”

Sherlock nodded, then responded verbally.  “I will, I promise.  Good night Greg.  And thank you.”

He had to ask.  “What for?”

“For accepting my apology.  You didn’t have to do that.”

Greg was torn.  He didn’t know what to say or do.  He didn’t know what to think or even how to feel about all of this.  He looked in the younger man’s direction but didn’t make eye contact.  “You’re welcome.” 

Continuing on his way, he stumbled blearily into his bedroom, removing his shirt along the way.  Not bothering to turn the light on, he unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers, letting them lay where they fell.  Pushing the simple duvet aside a bit, he slumped on to the bed, burrowing his face into the pillow.  Something was wrong, but what?  His over tired brained was barely functioning.  Shifting to a more comfortable position, he listened to the sound of his breathing and was just about to slip away when Sherlock’s words replayed in his head.

His eyes snapped open, his heart pounding.  Oh no!  Sherlock didn’t think…?  Fuck.  Summoning the last of his strength, he somehow managed to get out of his bed and shuffle to the top of the stairwell, praying that the younger man was still there.  “Sherlock?  You still here?”

He heard movement before Sherlock called up, “Yes, I’m still here. Do you need something?”

Greg couldn’t have this conversation via stairwell.  “Come here, I need to tell you something.”  He watched as Sherlock ascended the stairs, his expression equal parts apprehension and hopefulness.  Although he was still angry and hurt, his heart ached for his friend.  In spite of the dark thoughts and intense mood swings he’d been plagued by for weeks now, he did not believe that Sherlock had deliberately set out to hurt him.  If his own emotions had not been so out of control he would have realized a lot sooner that something was off.

“Earlier, when you asked if you hurt me and I said yes, I just meant that I was hurt when you left me alone and then ignored…I mean avoided me.  Nothing…bad happened.”

Sherlock’s eyes went from wide and questioning to flooded with relief.  His breath expelled in a rush.  His gaze fell and he turned away, confused by a tumultuous riot of emotions.  The idea that he’d done something terrible had crowded his thoughts since he had posed the question.  Could it have been only twenty minutes ago?  It had felt like an eternity.  Now that the fear was gone, he felt lost.  He wanted to touch the DI, put his arms around him, but held back.  Would that be selfish?  He didn’t know.  Where were these feelings coming from?  

Greg leaned against the wall, wanting to offer Sherlock something more.  He couldn’t think.  “I didn’t understand what you were asking me.  I may have mentioned, I’m really tired.”

“Yes, you ummm…you should get back to bed.”

“Yeah, I really should.  I just needed to make sure you weren’t tormenting yourself over something that never happened.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just do me a little favor please.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t delete this conversation, okay?  I don’t think I could go through this again.”

“No.  Nor I.  Consider it done.”

“Cheers.”  As he retraced his steps back to his soft, warm bed, he listened to the sound of the other man returning to the first floor.   Climbing in, he settled quickly, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.  Sleep claimed him swiftly.


	6. Positive Reinforcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little backstory.

It was late afternoon when Greg was gradually awakened by the muted sound of a violin playing.  Stretching his aging muscles languidly, he stayed where he was, enjoying that hazy half-sleep, the elusive remnants of a dream featuring a mysterious figure leading him through a misty maze, tantalizingly just out of reach, slowly tickling his consciousness to wakefulness.  Rolling on to his back, Greg threw off the duvet and opened his eyes.  He could tell by how the fading light slanted through the window that it was somewhere between three and five o’clock.  Simultaneously registering his full bladder and empty stomach, he took care of the former quickly before wrapping himself up in a slightly faded midnight blue dressing gown and padding silently to the top of the staircase.  Sinking down to sit on the top step, he crossed his arms in front of him and listened to the remainder of the Mozart Sonata, allowing his imagination to picture those long, elegant fingers moving fluidly along the fingerboard of the delicate instrument.

Feeling that familiar clenching in his gut whenever he acknowledged his closely held attraction for the normally unrecalcitrant Consulting Detective, Greg for once did not banish his musings to a corner of his mind and allowed them free reign as the spirited melody washed over and through him.  He rarely indulged in such fanciful thoughts, only too aware of where they could lead, even after all these years.  Instantly he was transported back in time to the evening he’d sought Sherlock out, just six months after their first exasperating meeting, hoping for help with a baffling case, praying that the lanky genius was clean and sober. 

_Approaching the building on Montague Street, Greg distractedly registered the violin music emanating from within.  His mind still on the frustrating case, it was with growing confusion that he stopped in front of the door to Sherlock’s flat, the music clearly coming from inside.  Taking a chance, he tried the doorknob and the door slowly drifted open.  The view that greeted him was so astonishing that he thought for a few mad seconds that perhaps he’d come to the wrong flat._

_The grimy mattress and rickety folding chair were gone and had been replaced with a plain but rather plush looking sofa and a worn leather armchair.  There was an area rug on the floor and curtains on the window.  A sturdy bookcase crammed full of books and periodicals occupied one corner of the room and a serviceable space heater provided ample heat for the flat.  However, the transformation of the man before him was even more mind-boggling.  Gone were the wrinkled, dingy clothes, ashen complexion and greasy hair.  Greg had to stare at Sherlock’s face, his eyes closed as he swayed with the ebb and flow of the exquisite composition he played with passion, to ensure that this was indeed the arrogant but brilliant man.  Although he was no connoisseur of designer fashion, Greg knew that the ensemble gracing Sherlock’s lithe form was expensive and almost certainly tailor made. The tableau was so surreal for Greg that he became a bit dizzy, slumping against the door frame for support._

_As the music built to a stirring crescendo, Greg became aware that his pulse had sped up and his breathing had grown a bit labored.  Although he had no problem admitting to himself that Sherlock Holmes was extremely easy on the eyes (or that his deep baritone voice occasionally sent shivers along his skin) he was in no way prepared to deal with a vague attraction suddenly morphing in to actual desire.  Panicking, Greg tried to pull the door closed while Sherlock was still unaware of his presence, fully intending to go hide in the stairwell until he could clamp down on his inappropriate reaction to this new and improved Sherlock._

_He was too late.  “Come in Inspector.”  Greg’s eyes flew back to Sherlock’s face.  His eyes were still closed but his face clearly expressed the concentration required to perform the musical piece with such precision.  Swallowing hard, Lestrade stepped just inside the door, gently closing it behind him.  He stood there, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face, struggling to bring his turbulent thoughts and emotions under control._

_The performance came to an end a couple minutes later, by which time Greg had managed to regain his composure through a basic breathing technique.  He watched as Sherlock carefully returned the instrument to its case resting on the sofa behind him.  Straightening, he took a few moments before turning to face his unexpected audience of one, hands clasped behind his back.  The two men stood several feet away from each other, silently assessing.  As the silence continued, Greg became increasingly aware that he was doing his best to school his features and thoughts in order to give nothing away.  As the younger man’s exotic eyes narrowed, Greg knew that Sherlock could tell the policeman was behaving differently and would soon become caught up in determining the reason for his reticence._

_Allowing his features to relax, Greg spoke from the heart.  “Sherlock, that was wonderful!”_

_Although Sherlock knew Greg was trying to deflect attention away from his uncharacteristic behavior, he was still getting re-accustomed to living without the dubious benefits of narcotics.  Whatever reason Lestrade had for keeping his distance, physically and emotionally, was probably a good one and at the moment Sherlock chose not to question it.  Instead he graciously acknowledged Greg’s praise.  “Thank you.”_

_Lestrade smiled, clearly relieved.  He scanned the room, another distraction, but understandable under the circumstances.  “So….you’ve redecorated.  It’s quite an improvement.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes dropped, his brows moving a bit closer together.  “Yes.  Um…I convinced Mycroft…my older brother, that I have stopped getting high.  This is meant to be positive reinforcement.”_

_Greg was as surprised by this revelation as he was encouraged by it.  Finally moving further in to the room, he naturally sought confirmation.  “Really?  You just…stopped?”  He’d managed to sound curious rather than skeptical, not wishing to derail the young genius’ recovery._

_Drawing himself up, Sherlock met his eyes again.  “Yes.”_

_Greg stopped a couple feet away, his smile growing, all earlier concerns forgotten, at least for the moment.  He was genuinely happy for the younger man.  “That’s really great Sherlock,” he said softly.  “You’re much too special to destroy yourself with drugs.”  Sherlock’s eyes widened as his eyebrows rose a fraction._

_Flustered, Greg scrambled to cover this slip in the most effective way possible.  “Speaking of positive reinforcement, I could really use your help with a tricky case, if you’re up for it.”_

_“Oh God, yes.”  Moments later, they were striding away from Sherlock’s much improved flat as he dramatically donned his fancy new coat._

Coming back to the here and now, Greg realized the music had ceased.  He sat quietly, listening for a bit.  He could hear movement in the kitchen.  Just as he was about to retreat to his room for a quick shower and a shave, he heard footsteps approaching, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ve put the kettle on for tea.”  Sherlock’s voice drifted gently up to him.  “There’s also a casserole warming.  Should be ready soon.”  A moment later, the footsteps retreated.

 


	7. Feelin Groovy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little food, a little music.

_Coming back to the here and now, Greg realized the music had ceased.  He sat quietly, listening for a bit.  He could hear movement in the kitchen.  Just as he was about to retreat to his room for a quick shower and a shave, he heard footsteps approaching, stopping at the bottom of the stairs._

_“I’ve put the kettle on for tea.”  Sherlock’s voice drifted gently up to him.  “There’s also a casserole warming.  Should be ready soon.”  A moment later, the footsteps retreated._

Greg sat motionless for a minute, blinking slowly as he registered several things at once.  First, Sherlock had not buggered off from boredom at some point during the last several hours as he slept.  Nor had he interrupted that sleep in any way.  Either that or he’d gone and come back.  He suspected that the exasperating man had even held off playing his violin until Greg was ready to awaken, although he had no idea why he believed that or how the other man could know such a thing.  Finally, Sherlock had apparently taken the time to either prepare or procure a meal.  These thoughts crowded his mind, still fuzzy with sleep and those memories from so long ago.  He was secure enough to admit that the notion of a more mature and considerate Sherlock scared the crap out of him.  He even knew why.

Summoning his courage, Greg pulled himself up and made his way to the kitchen where Sherlock was just taking a casserole dish out of his rarely used oven.  Placing it on the hob, he tossed the oven mitts on the counter and turned the oven off before speaking.  “This will need to cool for a bit.”  The thin man stepped to his right, opening a cupboard to remove a tall glass.  He filled it with cold water from the tap and placed it on the small table by the window.  “You should drink that.  You’re probably dehydrated from sleeping for so long.”  He turned to face Greg, a slight smirk gracing his features.  “Not to mention the scotch.”

Greg was too gob smacked to speak.  He found himself walking to and sitting at the table without a word.  He drank the water slowly both for something to do and also because of course the lanky bastard was correct.  He _was_ quite parched.   He watched as Sherlock prepared two mugs of strong tea, just a bit sweet, the way he liked it, and brought them to the table.  It seemed, for a moment, that he would say something, but then turned away again to gather plates and silverware.   He dished up two portions, one generous and the other noticeably smaller.   At last, with nothing left to do, he joined Greg at table. 

Greg stared at him, making no move to eat or drink.  Sherlock fidgeted nervously with his fork.  “What?”

Greg had actually begun to wonder if he weren’t perhaps still asleep after all, simply in the midst of another pleasant dream.  He drew breath and said the first thing that occurred to him.  “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and softly exhorted him to eat his dinner.  Greg took a moment to glance at the concoction in front of him.  It was a noodle based casserole but he detected several other ingredients, including large chunks of broccoli and giant Brussel sprouts, red and orange pepper strips, big cubes of ham and mushrooms, all simmering in a thick, creamy sauce that turned out to be a delicate and buttery white cheddar mixture.  At that moment, savoring his inaugural bite, Greg thought it might have been the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten.  His eyes rolled back in his head as he slowly chewed, his mind boggling at this development.  Did Sherlock secretly know how to cook all this time? 

Relishing the next few bites, he gathered his thoughts at least a little.  Placing his fork down, he sipped his tea.  Glancing at the other man, he met his silently inquisitive gaze.  Grinning tentatively, feeling a bit mystified, Greg queried, “Sherlock, did you make this?” 

The younger man nodded vaguely, his brows scrunching together a little.  “Mmm.  Molly was kind enough to email the recipe.”  He looked at his own plate, taking a small bite.

Greg watched him for a few seconds before turning back to his meal.  He couldn’t help trying to imagine Sherlock shopping for the ingredients, washing and chopping the vegetables, mixing the sauce.  He had to know.  “So you did all the work?  The shopping, all the prep work, mixing everything and then baking it?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his muscles tensing a little.  “Problem?”

Stifling a full on smile, Greg shook his head.  “Nope,” he replied, popping the final p.  “This,” he began, scooping up a succulent piece of ham with some pasta shells, chewing it with gusto before swallowing, “is amazing.” 

Sherlock’s face quickly suffused with color, pleased with this glowing assessment.   He looked away, his whole demeanor relaxing a bit.  “Thank you,” he breathed.  “I’m…glad you like it.”

The two men finished their meal silently.  Greg sat still, for once quite at peace, content.  For so long now he’d been aware that whenever circumstances brought the two of them together, regardless of what else was going on, he always felt just a little bit more relaxed, at home in his own skin, happy.  He’d never said anything to anyone, certainly not to Sherlock himself.  He tried not to examine or question it too much.  He just enjoyed it when it happened.  He knew only too well how quickly everything could change.

Before too much time passed, he stirred and spoke.  “That was delicious, Sherlock.  Thank you for that.  First decent meal I’ve had in a week.”

Sherlock nodded, mumbled, “Welcome.”  He seemed self-conscious for some reason.  “I’ll, um…take care of the washing up.”  He took the dishes to the sink.  After a bit, Greg got up to retrieve his mobile from his suitcoat, still draped over one armchair.  Pulling up a music app, he selected a song.  Moments later, the song began playing on his wireless speakers. 

Returning to the kitchen to the strains of The 59th Bridge Song (more commonly known as Feelin Groovy) Greg moved quietly to the counter to turn the kettle on as Sherlock washed the few remaining used dishes and placed them on a drying pad by the sink.  Greg retrieved the two mugs from the table and brought them to the counter.  Feeling Groovy segued into Homeward Bound.  Sherlock dried his hands then removed a container from a cupboard under the counter.  Greg got his special tea from the back of his pantry and prepped it.  Sherlock scooped half of the remaining casserole into the container and popped it into the freezer before sliding the casserole dish into the refrigerator.  When the kettle clicked, Greg poured steaming water into the mugs, carrying them both to the little table.  Sherlock took two spoons from a drawer, then took a covered bowl from the refrigerator.  Greg brought the sugar bowl to the table as Sherlock brought the covered bowl and spoons.  They resumed their seats at the same time.  Greg had noted Sherlock’s familiarity with his kitchen but said nothing.  The feeling of peaceful contentment filled the room as they sat listening to I am a Rock, drank their tea and ate tiramisu from the same bowl. 

 


	8. Gun shy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post dinner developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my fellow Sherstraders who've read and left kudos or comments.

Sherlock insisted that Greg go take a relaxing shower not long after they had finished their pudding.  About a half hour later, Greg learned that Sherlock had had an ulterior motive for getting him out of the way for a little while.  Moving as quietly as he could, Greg slipped downstairs, freshly showered and shaved, teeth gleaming and breath minty, wearing his oldest, most worn in jeans and a soft, dark blue jumper layered over a white, long sleeve tee.  The older man had not allowed himself to question why he’d taken a minute to style his hair with a bit of product.  And there wasn’t anything unusual about adding a spritz of subtle cologne.  

He heard movement towards the back of the townhouse and silently padded down the short hallway to the big lounge that ran the entire width of the structure.  Hovering in the shadows, Greg saw that Sherlock had slid the panoramic doors aside completely, opening the room up to the large, partially covered patio outside.  The space was shrouded in darkness. Wondering where Sherlock had got to, Greg vacillated between calling out and waiting for another clue.  As he scanned the area, his eyes caught a slight reflection from something about two feet off the ground, several paces beyond the wide opening. 

Reasonably sure there was nothing amiss, Greg continued his exploration, curious about what had been placed on his patio, previously only housing a grouping of four Adirondack style chairs.  While he had balked at the expense of real, solid wood authentic Adirondacks, he couldn’t resist a two for one deal for the all-weather wicker chairs he’d found not long after moving in three years earlier, fantasies of entertaining when the mood struck.  Those had been left stacked and covered in the corner over the winter and he hadn’t had the time or inclination to set them out again in recent months. 

Stepping out of the house, Greg saw that the chairs had indeed been uncovered and moved out into the center of the covered space, but now they were placed around what appeared to be a low table.  Walking over, he saw that it was not just a table.  Centered inside, flush with the top, was a layer of what looked like chunks of coal.  He knew exactly what this was.  The question was, why was it here?  And where the devil was Sherlock?

Glancing around, Greg was slightly frustrated by the lack of answers to these simple questions.  Returning to the house, Greg gathered a few things, including his phone (now softly playing Ventura Highway over his Bluetooth speakers) and an open pack of cigarettes.  Hesitating for a few moments, he finally slipped them into his pockets and retrieved the still mostly full bottle of Glenmorangie and two heavy glass tumblers.  Once out on the patio again, he quickly located the panel to access the hidden propane tank and carefully opened the valve.  A minute later, he leaned back in the comfortable chair and propped his bare feet on the wide ledge of the fire table, letting the low flames warm them.  Cautiously balancing the half full tumbler on his knee, he pulled up On Saturday Afternoons in 1963 by Rickie Lee Jones on his phone.  As the first strains filled the air around him, he sipped the scotch and let the music sooth his unsettled emotions.  He was glad for a little time to try to sort through them.

The last fifteen hours had been both surprising and confusing.  He seriously did not know what to make of Sherlock’s behavior.  Hearing him make such an unexpected and frankly startling confession had been more than he could rationally consider the night before.  Having had some sleep, a shower and a simple but delicious meal, Greg felt better able to try to wrap his head around this turn of events.  So.  Sherlock thought about him.  A lot apparently.  _Well_ , thought Greg, _that’s only fair_ , _considering I’ve been secretly besotted by the Consulting Madman for years_.  The question was, how did he feel about that?  And what should he do about it? 

Immediately his inner voice screamed, “Nothing!  Do nothing you idiot.  That’s like asking to get hurt all over again.  Seriously mate, don’t even think about it, about him, like that.  It’s impossible, you cannot count on him.  In a day, a week, he’ll find some new obsession and that will be that.  He’ll be gone and you will be alone and in way too deep to pull yourself out.  It’s not worth it.  It’s too risky.”

Greg scowled to himself.  Was he really so gun shy, so scared to get hurt again that he was unwilling to even entertain the notion in the privacy of his own home?  Or was the real problem that this was different, that this had the potential to make him more vulnerable than he’d ever been, even when he knew his wife was unfaithful.  As this truth settled over him, Greg searched for Wild Horses by The Rolling Stones.  Setting the phone down, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

Greg forced himself to accept it: he wanted Sherlock, badly, but he was afraid because he knew if he took that risk and it didn’t work out he would be decimated.  Obliterated.  It didn’t bear thinking about. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.  About his lips on Sherlock’s, his fingers tangling through those impossible curls.  About pulling him close, sucking on that Cupid’s bow mouth, bending him backwards, pushing his tongue past those succulent lips, ravaging that mouth.  An unbidden groan escaped his throat and Greg had to move his legs apart a little to accommodate his burgeoning erection.  _Jesus, I’m fucked_ , he thought to himself. 

Taking a larger swallow of the smoky, spicy liquor, Greg opened his eyes.  Sherlock sat across from him, staring, his eyes wide, expression stark and unguarded, back poker straight and rigid.  Greg could only stare back, heart pounding, throat frozen.  Breathing was quite impossible.  He tried to ground himself, focusing on the liquor burning in his belly, the heat on the soles of his feet. 

Sherlock swallowed, hard, and took a shaky breath. “Is that for me?” he queried, indicating the empty glass, his voice dry and raspy.  Greg nodded but said nothing, watching as Sherlock moved to the chair on his right and slowly poured a small measure of the glowing liquid, his hand trembling slightly.  Greg found himself enveloped in a cloud that was distinctly Sherlock.  Aside from the faint scent of pine (that Greg suspected was from rosin) he detected tea, lemon, ginger and some kind of chemical, like window cleaner   He breathed in cautiously and was instantly light headed.  From the strong hint of mint, Greg surmised that Sherlock had freshened up in the extra bathroom, probably cleaned his teeth too. 

Greg was, quite simply, terrified.  He had no idea what to do, or what to say.  He honestly didn’t even know what he really, truly wanted.   The relaxed, contented atmosphere they had shared earlier was long gone, replaced by this new, alarming awareness.  As they sat there, each wrestling with his own thoughts, the tension mounted.  There was an awkward moment or two of silence as the last notes of Wild Horses faded to nothing.  Before Greg could retrieve his phone, Light My Fire began to play, unbidden.  Greg’s shocked gaze locked on to his heretofore trusted mobile, trying to stop the sounds that seemed to be taunting him, calling him out.  _Oh, for fuck’s sake_ , he thought, _really?_

To his right he heard a somewhat strangled sound and could not stop himself from turning to look at his companion.  Sherlock’s face was bright red, his lips clamped, his eyes a bit wild.  As Greg glared at him, almost accusatory, Sherlock shrank back, a tiny whimper escaping.  Hearing it, his eyes grew even wider and his free hand flew to cover his mouth as he failed to restrain another mangled snicker. 

Greg dragged in desperately needed oxygen and was once again walloped by what was almost certainly some very powerful pheromones even as he felt his face flush with embarrassment.  “What?” He managed to croak

Sherlock removed his hand, clearing his throat.   He sat up straighter and gestured to the fire table.  “Well…”

 

 

 


	9. Black Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg thinks about some stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of you still checking in. I know it's been a long time since I updated. But Sherstrade is always worth the wait.

_Sherlock’s face was bright red, his lips clamped, his eyes a bit wild.  As Greg glared at him, almost accusatory, he shrank back, a tiny whimper escaping.  Hearing it, Sherlock’s eyes grew even wider and his free hand flew to cover his mouth as he failed to restrain another mangled snicker._

_Greg dragged in desperately needed oxygen and was once again walloped by what was almost certainly some very powerful pheromones even as he felt his face flush with embarrassment.  “What?” He managed to croak._

_Sherlock removed his hand, clearing his throat.   He sat up straighter and gestured to the fire table.  “Well…”_

Sherlock had no idea what to say.  Arriving on the terrace to find Greg stretched out, eyes closed, feet propped up on the offering he’d settled on had filled the genius with trepidation.  Dinner had gone surprisingly well and Sherlock worried that he’d perhaps gone too far having the fire table delivered while Greg showered.  He’d spent considerable time that day trying to think of some way he could demonstrate to the DI that he is sincere in his determination to make amends for whatever he’d done, whether he could remember it or not.  He knew Greg would consider the gift extravagant.  Sherlock was also aware that the police man had been researching fire pits and tables online for over a year.  It was when he thought of perhaps being invited to spend a quiet evening by the fire that caused his fingers to fly and before he knew it the order was placed.   

Although doing his best to relax, it was clear the older man was contemplating something disturbing.  As Sherlock took in his close shave, carefully “disheveled” hair and tanned skin, the slight creasing on his brow eased a bit.  Greg’s lips parted and he ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip before biting down gently.  Detecting a slight flush to that glowing skin, Sherlock stopped breathing and silently sank into the chair he’d stepped in front of without conscious thought.  When a low moan escaped Greg’s lips and he moved his legs slightly further apart, Sherlock swallowed and tried to ignore the odd sensation in his midsection. 

Greg’s eyes opened a moment later, growing wide as he became aware of Sherlock sitting across from him.  A few tense moments elapsed as Sherlock desperately tried to think of something to say.  Gesturing to the empty tumbler, he stammered, “Is that for me,” hating how unsure he sounded.  The DI nodded but didn’t speak, staring at Sherlock with trepidation.  Determined to overcome this awkwardness, the consulting detective moved to the chair to his left, distinctly aware that Greg watched him closely as he shakily poured two fingers of the dark liquid. 

Sherlock didn’t know what came over him when a popular song from an American band from the sixties began to play.  _What is wrong with me?_ he wondered when he could not keep an aborted snicker from escaping the back of his throat.  Greg’s eyes flew to him, affronted.  Sherlock shrank back, the urge to laugh close to over powering.  He clamped his hand over his mouth when another mangled noise emerged in spite of his best efforts.  At the look on Greg’s face, Sherlock’s eyes darted about, seeking something to restore his equanimity. 

_“What?”_ Greg’s husky voice caused a shiver to flow though Sherlock.  This is ridiculous, Sherlock thought and forced himself to stop overreacting to every little thing and relax.  He gestured to the fire table, “Well…” but had no idea how to complete the thought.  Relief swept through him when Greg released a breath he’d been holding on a low chuckle. 

Sherlock watched, the tension dissipating a bit as the older man rubbed a hand over his face.  “Oh God, we are ridiculous, aren’t we?”

Taking a generous sip from his drink, Sherlock sat back.  He just said the first thing that came in to his head.  “I feel like a virginal teenager.  That’s certainly ridiculous.”  A brief glance to his left revealed brown eyes watching him with both concern and curiosity.  Shifting his gaze to the low flames he added, “Drug use wasn’t my only foray into destructive behaviors.”

“Oh lad,” Greg breathed.  He’d wondered of course, over the years, what Sherlock’s youth had been like.  And though he’d never asked, had been curious about his experience, or its lack.  When John Watson came in to the picture, rumors were rampant.  Greg didn’t know if anything had ever happened between them.  For months after Sherlock’s leap from St. Bart’s, John was inconsolable and Greg thought that maybe the rumors had been true.  At the time it had consoled him, just a bit, to think that Sherlock might have found some happiness.  Mostly he just missed him so intensely that sometimes he couldn’t breathe.

That first year without Sherlock, believing him to be gone forever, was a black hole.  His marriage had imploded, his career was hanging in the balance and he felt the pressure of John’s grief like a huge bolder.  Stuck on desk duty until every case Sherlock had worked on was re-examined and found to be exactly as they seemed, Greg went through the motions at work.  He showed up on time, kept to himself and left as soon as his shift was over.  He drank a lot and smoked even more.  He sat alone in the dark a lot.  Where John’s grief was out in the open, his was hidden from almost everyone.  

After it was revealed that Moriarty had fooled Kitty Reilly into believing he was actor Richard Brook, hired by Sherlock to play the role of consulting criminal, Greg had been reinstated as DI.  He returned to his old office as quietly as he’d left.  When asked if he wanted any of his team transferred, he declined.  It took him a while to work through the resentment he felt towards Sally Donovan.  Anderson had already been sacked. 

Working without Sherlock there to call him an idiot was more difficult than he could have imagined.  He hid in his office quite a bit, struggling to overcome the overwhelming sense of loss enough to do his job competently.  He got better at handling the strong emotions but it never got any easier.  When John Watson contacted him out of the blue, he agreed to meet him for some pints.  Greg hadn’t seen or spoken to him in months and he didn’t know what to expect.  He was surprised to find that John seemed to have turned a corner and was working again, even dating. 

Greg questioned himself a lot after that, wondering why he hadn’t moved on.  He didn’t figure it out until one night in the car park at the Yard when a voice he never thought he’d hear ever again came at him from the shadows. 

 


	10. When All I Gave You Was a Headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has done something really nice for Greg, but he's conflicted.

_A brief glance to his left revealed brown eyes watching him with both concern and curiosity.  Shifting his gaze to the low flames he added, “Drug use wasn’t my only foray into destructive behaviors.”_

_“Oh lad,” Greg breathed._

Sherlock hastened to wipe the worry from the older man’s face.  “It’s...fine.  Please don’t....” He shook his head dismissively.  “It’s so long ago now.  Really, I barely remember anything from that time.”  He could see that Greg’s caring nature was warring with his pragmatism, telling him to let the past stay in the past.  He smiled softly, reassuringly.  “Let’s not let ancient history mar the lovely day we’ve had.”

Sherlock held his breath, waiting for the moment when the new tension left Greg’s body.  Relaxing a bit, he sat back and crossed his right leg over his left, shifting slightly to face the Inspector more fully.  Greg released a deep sigh, stretching his legs out to cross them at the ankles, still propped on the fire table.  “So.  What’s this about?”

His companion took a few moments to respond.  “Consider it a token of my gratitude.”

“What for?” Greg honestly had no idea.

He was a little afraid to say it but it needed to be said.  “For another chance.  One I certainly don’t deserve but I’m very grateful for all the same.”

A small crease formed on Greg’s brow.  “Sherlock...you don’t need to give me things to show your appreciation.”

Sherlock watched the older man quietly until he looked up.  “I knew you would say that.  I know I didn’t have to do it Greg.  I _wanted_ to.  I know you’ve wanted one since you moved here and I wanted to...do something, make some small offering.  You’ve done so much for me over the years, made countless sacrifices, risked so much.  Never asking anything of me except that I stay clean.  And when I failed, again and again, you never gave up on me, never stopped trying.”

Greg closed his eyes again, thinking of that night three months ago when everything had changed.  When he’d gone to see Sherlock to ask him and he’d seen the truth for himself.  When he couldn’t hold himself back any more and he’d suddenly been standing right in front of the lanky bastard, drowning in those limpid blue-green eyes gazing back at him, shocked and confused. A moment later Greg had pushed him up against the wall, full of need, overflowing with want and desire and taken his mouth, plundered it, pouring everything into that kiss.  A kiss that the other man seemed to have no conscious memory of.

And now here they were, sitting on his back terrace, sipping Scotch and Sherlock was saying things he never thought he’d hear.  It was too much.  He was a mess of conflicting emotions, his instincts pulling him in wildly different directions.  He couldn’t think.  He needed time to sort everything out.  In the meantime, Sherlock was waiting for him to say _something._ Ruthlessly banishing his thoughts of that night, he said, “Okay, yes, I can understand that, but...”

“But?”

“As tokens go, this is a bit-

“Extravagant.  I knew you’d say that too.”  The policeman glared at him, exasperation evident. “Sorry.”

“Because it is Sherlock, it is very extravagant.  You could have just gotten me a nice bottle of wine or something.  That would have been fine.”

The consulting detective frowned. Creating more disquiet was not what he’d wanted to do. “I understand.  Please don’t be upset.  I’ll have it removed tomorrow if that’s what you want.  But... we can at least enjoy it tonight though, right?”

Greg scowled at the low flames, still quite conflicted.  He knew what he wanted to say but was not at all sure that it was a good idea to do so.  Added to that was Sherlock’s obvious worry that he had overstepped more than he’d realized.  The uncertainty in his last question rang loud in Greg’s ears. Never having known the younger man to be so thoughtful and generous, he had no idea how to react to it.  On the one hand he truly thought the gift to be far too expensive and on the other, he certainly didn’t want to reject this tentative offering because of a somewhat old fashioned notion.

Sherlock had picked up on Greg’s uncertainty.  “I realize it is a pricey item. For what it’s worth, the cost is no hardship.  I was given a substantial discount by the retailer in exchange for telling him which of his employees was stealing from him.  Took about ten minutes.  Didn’t even have to go out, he emailed the pertinent data.  Turns out two of them were working together.”  He paused to see if his mild attempt to distract Greg with “shop talk” of a sort had met with any success.  Greg shot him a look to make it clear this attempt had failed.

Trying another tack he surmised, “I imagine you think that has no bearing.”  He was quiet for a few beats before adding. “If it helps, you can think of it as one giant present to make up for all the birthdays and holidays when all I gave you was a headache.”

This pronouncement was funny enough to yank Greg out of his funk.  As his laughter faded, he fixed the consultant with a mild glare.  “There certainly were more than a few of those.”

Sherlock smirked, somehow a bit smug, his eyes sparkling.  “Just so.”

Greg felt his worry fading away as he gazed at those ethereal eyes.  “I’m not being very gracious, am I?” he murmured.  Wisely, Sherlock elected not to respond.  Taking a breath, Greg decided to just let it be.  He nodded, “Okay Sherlock, I accept your gift.  Thank you.  It’s...a really nice one too.  Much nicer than the models I was considering.”  Arching an eyebrow, he teased, “But you already knew that and selected this one because it fell in the same price range after that discount.”

Holmes tilted his head to acknowledge it.  “Not bad Lestrade.  How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

Greg shrugged nonchalantly.  “It’s only logical.  Obvious.”  He grinned cheekily at the predicable eye-roll that followed.


End file.
